


==>Bro: Make a goddamn sandwich.

by Fishadee



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, Guardiancest, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 18:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4403120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishadee/pseuds/Fishadee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Bro Strider and you are hungry for a goddamn sandwich.  Your boyfriend seems to be hungry for your dick.  This is turning into a conflict of interests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	==>Bro: Make a goddamn sandwich.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glowcloudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowcloudy/gifts).



> glowcloudy wrote: #pls dedicate guys fucking in a kitchen to me  
> Your wish is my command.

If you were anyone else in the entire world you'd drop everything you were doing to pay attention to the arms snaked around your waist and the slim, dexterous fingers plucking at your belt buckle. However the jury has come back and the verdict is that you aren't anyone else in the entire world and the truth is that the hands grabbing for your junk are just getting in the way of your one true mission in the world at this moment. (This moment, of course, being three PM on a lazy Tuesday afternoon.)

Your name is Bro Strider and you are hungry for a goddamn sandwich. Your boyfriend seems to be hungry for your dick. This is turning into a conflict of interests.

"C'n I help you?" you ask in your best (sexiest) drawl and you direct the question in its entirety to ten pale fingers blindly feeling their way along your belt to unfasten the buckle. The hands do not answer for they are hands and to be honest you weren't really expecting a reply from just short of a dozen digits anyway. Not that they _couldn’t_ answer; you’ve accepted plenty of the middle finger salutes in your time to know that hands themselves are perfectly capable of telling you to go fuck yourself, which is why hands are awesome.

"I don't know, _can you?_ " Now, see, the voice behind you, the hot breath on the back of your neck that makes goosebumps break out down your forearms? That's the reply you were expecting. ...can't say you were expecting him to be a pedantic prick about your wording, though; sounds like he's pent up. Of course, that means you are in no mood to give in to his unreasonable demands, whatever they may be. You’re a goddamn red blooded American, you do not negotiate with terrorists. (Terrorists, boyfriends that are getting in the way of your lunchtime meal fix, same difference.)

"Iunno. Can I?" You feel his hands stiffen up, his thumb pressed to the button of your jeans when he finally pauses because oh, hey, you kind of got that asshole tone in your voice and snapped at him a little. In your defense you are hungry enough to eat an entire equestrian show's worth of horses and he really is interrupting your sandwich creation duties. Everything's already laid out, you have six kinds of meat and three types of cheese and enough hot sauce to kill a small child. This thing is going to be a triple decker sandwich of spicy and disgusting and you have plans to devour the entire thing without even a crumb left as proof and then suck down three pickles when you're all done.

...and if D calms his ass down and lets you feed your ravenous hunger you'll make it four, but goddamn he is relentless because you don't even hint at an apology for being short with him and he's already dragging your zipper down.

"Bro, god _dammit_. What, do you want me to beg? I'm horny, I've been busy as hell and I get home and I don't even have my shoes off and here in my fancy as fuck kitchen is some gorgeous, swole, shirtless dude in jeans and leather gloves and shades and how am I supposed to resist that? Like, one look and it's like, oh hey that fellow handling my meat-- is that my prosciutto? You better not kill that off I wanted some of that--"

You don't address his tirade. You do peel the last of the prosciutto off the deli paper and lay it lovingly across the bed of mayonnaise and mustard as if it were a virgin to be defiled. It is. You're going to defile that prosciutto. With your mouth. D makes a noise of protest and dips his fingers into your boxers and whoa, hello, _goddamn_ he has cold hands.

He snickers against your neck and you use up the last of the salami, too. You are a man on a mission of hunger and vengeance is just a pit stop along the way.

"If y'wanted some y'shouldn't'a left it in the fridge where I coulda got it." You're laying the accent on thick because you know it turns him on and if he's going to be all grabby for your dick with his goddamn icy fingers then you're going to be a jerk about it. Hell, you're being enough of a jerk just by focusing on your sandwich, laying on the middle slice of bread with all the care of a true craftsman. A sandwich artisan, minus the Subway bullshit. The only thing you want to eat fresh is his toned ass.

Oh. That's a thought. Won't sate your hunger but you spend a moment to consider the noises he makes when you're tongue deep in a good meal of D's booty and suddenly he's cooing because his _cold as fuck_ fingers are stroking the chub you've got building and he thinks he did it.

Which. He did. Sort of. Roundabout. Fuck it; you spread out the hot sauce and lay down some turkey because you're a goddamn maniac living life on the edge. This seems about the time to start smothering it in tomatoes and you stick your finger right through one when D catches your PA and gives it a tug in just the way you like.

"Dude, I am tryin' to craft _beauty_ here and you are being a vile seducer. A charlatan. A minx. Some Hollywood vixen attemptin' to sully my proper country sensibilities. Y'ought be ashamed." The extraction of finger from tomato is a simple one and you proceed with the sandwich construction. So be it some of the building material has been _rudely punctured_ due to--

Oh, fuck, hello.

Quick glance down shows that your dick is out of your pants and doing its best redwood impression and D's hands are working you over like you did something right in recent history. You're pretty sure the last time he put this much effort into giving you a reach around (because with him fitting up against your back that's exactly what this feels like) was one of the very, very few times you let him top you. You know it was less than five in total because you make him think you're keeping count. (You're not, really. You just know it's under five.) Maybe the last time he put this much effort in and he wasn't buried balls deep in your ass was... fuck, what was it? He had a flat on the highway and you drove out to change his tire for him so he didn't have to ruin his fresh manicure. You're pretty much the best boyfriend ever.

He's sure as hell stroking your dick like you are, rolling your foreskin over the ridge of your head and rocking your PA back and forth in its place and _damn_ , what did you do right.

Oh, wait, he's horny, that means any moment he's going to peel his hands away and suggest you fuck him bent over the counter. You wonder if you can at least get a couple bites in of your sandwich before he leaves you hanging.

"You know I'm ashamed," he purrs right in your ear and shit, yup, those are goosebumps again. "Totally ashamed. Look at all this shame right here, I'm downright shocked I stooped so low as to try and seduce a proper gent like yourself."

"You makin' fun'a my accent?" You manage to keep how much he's affecting you out of your tone but damn if you can't quite keep the smile down. D's so good with his hands, you feel kind of blessed this day. Good sandwich, great boyfriend. You're going to get so laid and all you had to do was stand around in the kitchen with half your clothes off. Fuck yes.

"I'm makin' fun'a yer accent," he mimics and you're stuck between wanting to throttle him and kiss him stupid. Maybe you'll throttle him stupid, that sounds good. You know what else sounds good? Slapping some hot peppers onto your sandwich, finishing it off and slicing that delicious sumnabitch in half. Diagonal-ways, because you're _fancy as fuck_. Not even D's tricky hands can distract you from your prize.

"You can make fun'a my accent all you want 'cause I got me one'a these; a six meat three cheese double stacked somethin' somethin' club sandwich, the kind a real Strider eats instead'a one'a yer little thin more-bread-than-meat bullshit deals." You show it off. This sandwich is your masterpiece and you get ready to take that first bite with D's hands on your cock.

...wow, except this feels way too close to foodplay and you aren't into that, that shit is how you get ants and now you're thinking of ants on the counters because of the dumb fireant problem back in your apartment in Texas. You're still hungry but now the choice is to shoo D's hands off and eat, or hold off on the sandwich for a couple minutes to get the fucking done. The more you look down at the way his hands are stroking you the more you think you'll have to bite the bullet and take lunch after you do the day's work.

The day's work is, in this case, a euphemism for boning your sexy, famous boyfriend.

So what do you do? Simple: you set the sandwich back down before you pluck D's hands off your dick, ignore his protests, and spin the two of you around so he's shoved up against the counter. Then, because you are a trite asshole, you hook an arm around his waist just so you can move the plate your glorious sandwich is resting on off to the side - don't want him knocking that thing over, after all.

"Will you fuckin' quit botherin' me?" is what you ask but it comes out all wrong, the tone far more deserving of the words _You know I love you, right?_ instead of the snarky thing you actually spat out. The asshole is ruining your tough guy image, making you get all smiley with him while you peel his jacket off his shoulders and toss it back over to the kitchen island.

"Afraid I can't do tha--" is what he starts to say before you clamp your hand over his mouth.

"Afraid I can't letcher make that reference, Dave," is how you respond and he snorts behind your hand and you love this Hollywood jerk so goddamn much, it's absolutely ruining any hope you have of looking like a don't-give-a-fuck badass. He has ruined you. Ruined! You ruin him back by kissing his neck, catch your stubble against the skin under his ear and he melts apart while you work his pants open one handed. Which actually kind of proves difficult so you release his mouth (biggest mistake ever and you know it) to get his slacks and those ridiculous whitey-tighties with the red trim down around his thighs.

You don't even get to ask for the lube. You try, you're halfway through making the L sound with the tip of your tongue pressed up against the roof of your mouth and suddenly there's a bottle of astroglide in your face like he just knew what you were going to say.

Well, sort of... obvious now, isn't it. Huh.

"Don't bother with the prep, I'm gonna go nuts if you spend half an hour fingering me open when we both know I don't need it." You hear him but get lost in the sight of his dress shirt draped against his bare ass and the pale skin of his thighs and think to yourself about how much better LA is than Houston. Namely because D doesn't live in Houston, but lives in LA, and you get to fuck this man on the regular.

"You say that but remember that one time--" D swings his elbow back and you take the blow in the solar plexus and remind yourself to throttle him stupid later for the interruption.

"Okay but, lube doesn't mean you can just cram your entire horsecock into my ass and go wild like you're a buckin' bronco or something, you still have to ease it in. Seriously, you can keep the rodeo out of the bedroom." While you understand his point (and felt bad about it in the moment and for the three days afterwards he couldn't sit down proper) you take some inexplicable offense at the wording and debate pulling his hair and calling him pardner.

While that'd be a great way to see if you could hold on for eight seconds you settle for second best, which is smearing a nice dollop of cold-as-hell-froze-over lube over his hole before you skip the starter and hook two fingers into him. He stiffens up and you make your _Ah, caught you!_ noise in the back of your throat before you can stop yourself.

"Okay, two things: one, we ain't in the bedroom, an' two, I'm at least gonna give you some cursory stretching because aforementioned horsecock and all." Working two fingers up into him while he grips the edge of the counter is definitely a pastime you enjoy and you're absolutely okay with spending the few minutes to do this right; he's impatient as hell and you wind up scissoring your fingers pretty quick, prepping him with the kind of ruthless efficiency he fell in love with you for. Hey, even you know when to stop fucking with a man so you can, well, fuck him.

That does not prevent you from fingering him until he's whining for you to bang him like a screen door in a hurricane and making the very same breathless little noises that always make your dick twitch like it could somehow get harder. Part of you wants to raise a fuss about him being too hot and needing to tone that shit back, especially when he's still wearing half his work clothes and his expensive leather shoes. The rest of you decides this is a great time to insinuate yourself up against his back, slick lube down your erection (because damn that thing's not gonna go away at this point unless you Take Care Of It) and line yourself up.

He's whimpering out _C'mon, Bro, c'mon_ like it's a mantra and yup, that sounds like enough prep because _you're doin' this, man_.

(You know he'd turn around and punch you in the jaw if he knew you just made that mental reference at a time like this.)

When you quit playing (after the twenty seventh time he whines out for you to quit playing) you ease into him with as much gentility as you and your horsecock can manage and the sound that drips out of him is liquid gold against your eardrums. It's the perfect middle ground between a sigh of relief and a groan for more and you savor it, savor the feeling of his stomach flexing and fluttering under your hands and the way he inches his ass back when you settle your leather-clad palms on his hips. Not that you don't also savor the feeling of how warm and pliant he is on the inside because damn do you savor that as well.

One hand finds its way into his hair and the moan he tries to bite back says _yes, this was an excellent idea, thankyouverymuch._

"So, now that we ain' in th'bedroom..."

"Bro, I swear to god."

"How 'bout that rodeo."

"If you say it I swear I will divorce you I will marry you just to divorce you don't you dare doubt me on this I--"

" _Pardner._ "

Okay, so you don't do much fucking for the first minute while you cackle and he makes this _argh_ sound like it's straight out of a cartoon but once the both of you are calmed down you set to making sure neither of you are calmed down. Also, since you're a wonderful person and a hell of a nice guy you make sure to give him a reach around while you fuck him up against the counter and the moans that echo around in the kitchen say you are doing approximately everything right.

Did you mention you’re the best boyfriend ever? You really are the _best_ boyfriend ever.

He comes before you do, as per usual, with a shout and heaving breath like he just ran a marathon. He also winds up getting jizz all over his fancy three trillion dollar cabinets, which is not as per usual but you feel a sense of joy and vindication about it. That is completely separate from the sense of _holy shit, fuckin' hell, goddamn does he feel amazing--_ that rides you over your own edge and you come off gripping his hips like he's a life raft and you're going to wash away in the sensation.

Stupidly poetic but _damn_ , D feels better than a mortal man has any right to and it always throws you off how good it is when you come inside him and get to enjoy the aftermath of stroking his hips and trailing kisses along his neck and...

Ugh. You're in love. So much for your stoic, harsh, Texan persona.

"Better?" you ask him and he mmhmm's all sweetly and sleepy-like and you fucked the stress right out of him. You are amazing and deserve all the medals.

"Much. Thanks, I can think again." You're even gentle on the dismount and he only makes a vaguely annoyed noise as arousal gives way to _ick there is a bunch of lube and jizz all up in my business_. Happens.

"No problem--" You get interrupted because D's face is up in your face and there is some wonderful sweet lip-on-lip action going on, so you cup his face and he half wraps his arms around your waist and you liplock in the kitchen with both your pants down and everything is fantastic. Just... absolutely fantastic, to the point that you really need to close your eyes and just think about how much you enjoy this rich Hollywood asshole.

Don’t tell anyone, you’re really an asshole, a massive jerkwad who has no feelings and a heart made out of cold iron and wasps and _goddammit_ you love him.

D drops a parting kiss on your chin before he pulls up his pants and waddles off and you just enjoy the afterglow until the sticky feeling of lube gets to you. Which is right around the time you find some paper towels to wipe yourself down with, toss those in the trash and turn back to your sandwich---

...

Where the fuck did your sandwich go?

...oh. Oh, oh you’re gonna _kill him_. Did you mention you’re going to throttle him stupid?

“ _D!_ ”


End file.
